Confessions of a Drug Dealer
by The 1000th Kiss
Summary: Who was The Man before he became The Man? My first story outside of Collins or Angel...I'm scared. R&R please.
1. Intro

**New story! And it's not about Collins or Angel. *gasp* It's true. The 1000****th**** Kiss is writing a story outside of her comfort zone . . . and she's scared it won't be good. *holds arms out for hug***

**I own nothing. The Almighty Larson owns it all.**

If you ask anybody about me, they'd probably tell you that drugs are my life. Well, those people aren't completely right and I'm here to set the record straight. Drugs are only _half _of my life. Memories of how I got to where I am today are the other half. I can sum it up for you: I sell drugs for a reason.

No, I'm not dirt poor and selling drugs is my last resort. No, I didn't just wake up one day and say, "Hey. I think I'm gonna sell smack for the rest of my life so I can pay off all my debt." I don't even _have _any debt to pay. I sell because I _have_ to, not because I _want_ to. Hell, if it were up to me, my old man wouldn't have been using in the first place.

It's his fault. His and only his. His fault I almost flunked out of middle school. His fault I didn't finish high school. His fault _I _started using. His fault I have AIDS. It's all his fault. He started everything and because of him, I'm stuck selling. Because of him, I'm in this shit for life! I _hate_ that bastard!

The fucker sold _everything _for smack! First it was little things like the radio or the toasted. Then he moved on to the t.v., the couch, his bed, _my _bed. He ran out of stuff to sell and started letting his dealers (yes, he had more than one) take members of his family to abandoned warehouses and crack houses to "have a little fun" with them. I, unfortunately, was the favorite . . . but I won't get into that right now. So basically a few things about me are I hate my father, my life is a pile of dog shit, I'm dying, and I have nobody around that cares about me.

My name is Timothy Mann and this is my story.

**That was a _very_ short first chapter/introduction thing, but it's done. **

**Review please.**


	2. It Starts

**Next chapter. So . . . it seems people like this story. I shall continue as they want me to.  
**

**I own nothing. The Almighty Larson owns it all.**

Believe it or not, my life used to be normal. You're probably thinking, "The Man? Having a normal life? That's not possible." Well, I did, so it is. In fact, I was a really smart kid. I even liked school. But all of that came to a sudden crash on my tenth birthday.

It was a day just like any other day. I was walking home from school with a black eye, carrying my books, and crying as usual (I was sort of a nerd so I always got my ass kicked by everyone). When I got to my house, there was a black car parked out front right behind my parent's car. I thought nothing of it, walked into the house, and went to the living room to find two men holding my dad at gunpoint and my mom lying on the floor with a bullet hole in her chest.

I dropped my books and screamed my ten-year-old head off.

"Who's kid?" one of the men ask.

"Mine," my dad answered quietly.

"MA!" I screamed, rushing over to her. I dropped to my knees and started crying into her hair. I looked up at the man who'd spoken. "WHAT'D YOU DO TO MY MOM!?" The other man turned around and stared at me, giving my dad enough time to take his gun.

"What the hell do you th-" was all he had time to say before my dad shot him five times in the chest. I watched in horror as the man fell to the floor and my dad shot the other man twice in the head, killing him as well.

"Dad . . ." I said, my eyes widen at what I'd just witnessed. "Who-"

"No time to explain," Dad interrupted. "Pick up your books."

"But . . . Ma . . ." He slapped me across my face so hard I can still feel the sting today if I think about it enough. My eyes started to water.

"Pick up your fucking books and shut up!" Dad yelled. I did as I was told just before he grabbed me by my arm and pulled me out of the house. He took my books from me, threw them in the trunk of the car, and then threw me into the backseat.

"Dad?" I tried again, my cheek still stinging. Dad glared at me and I didn't continue with my question.

"I'll be right back," he said, shutting the door. "Don't move." He went back into the house.

I sat in the car and thought about what I'd just seen. I was pretty sure I was going to have some serious issues when I got older. Seeing three dead bodies when you _just _made it into the double digits is the kind of shit that fucks you up for life.

Dad returned about thirty minutes later, carrying two suitcases. He put them in the trunk, slammed it shut, took the car keys out of his pocket, got into the driver's seat, started the car, and took off.

"Dad, where are we going?" I asked. Dad stared at me in the rear-view mirror.

"Mexico," he said.

"Why?"

"Because we have to."

"That makes no sense. Why would we-"

"Tim, I will throw you out of this fucking car if you ask one more thing!" Dad interrupted angrily. "Now, sit there and shut the hell up!" That shut me up. We rode in silence for about fifteen minutes. "How was school today?"

That actually made me want to slap him as hard as he'd slapped me. My mom was dead when I got home and he was asking me about my fucking school day!

"I got beat up again," I answered quietly.

"What for this time?"

"Same thing as last time." I stared out the window. "How come they don't like me?"

"Those kids are just punks. They need somebody small to pick on so their egos don't get smashed."

"You think so?"

"I know so." We rode in silence for another fifteen minutes. I thought about me life before I was ten. I always had a party and ma made the best cakes. Now she was gone all because of something Dad had done and he wouldn't tell me about it.

"Today's my birthday, you know," I told Dad. He looked at me in the rear-view mirror again.

"It is?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, happy . . . how old are you?"

"You don't know how old I am?"

"I . . . uh . . . forgot." Another thing I wanted to slap him for. If my mom would've been alive . . .

"Ma would've remembered." He slammed on the brakes of the car. We were on a highway so I knew I was in trouble. He got out of the car, opened the back door, and pulled me out of the backseat. Before I could process what was happening, he punched me, knocking me to the ground. Then he kicked me multiple times in the stomach. I was picked up and thrown back into the car, bloody, bruised, and crying.

"Don't_ ever_ mention your mom again!" Dad demanded. "Do you understand me!?" In fear of being hit again, I nodded and he slammed the door, got back into the driver's seat, and drove like a bat out of hell. I remained silent in the backseat, crying. Though I didn't know whether I was crying about Dad beating me in the middle of the goddamn highway or Ma's death. I just knew I wanted to be nine again so everything could be normal. I mean, I'd waited all my life to be ten and now that I was, my world was falling apart and I was leaving the country.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

**Poor guy. :( Second chapter: Done. I hope you liked it!**

**Review please.**


	3. My Dad: The Junkie

**Next one. Enjoy.**

**I own nothing. The Almighty Larson owns it all.**

Our first night in Mexico is a night that I'll always remember. And not just because I'd been beaten violently for trying to find out why my mom was dead. That night I'd found out something about my father that I could have lived without knowing.

I was lying in my new, almost too small bed, staring at the ceiling. I'd been trying to get to sleep for hours, but nothing was working. I sat up and looked at the wallpaper that was falling off of the walls. After about five minutes, I got out of bed and headed to Dad's room. I opened the door slowly and my eyes widened when I saw Dad sitting on the bed, a needle loaded with heroin in his arm.

"Dad, what're you doing?" I asked. Dad practically ripped the now empty needle out of his arm, grabbed me by my shirt collar, slammed me against the wall, and slapped me. I started crying instantly.

"Shut up!" Dad demanded. "What the hell are you crying for!?" I stared at him, fear and tears in my eyes.

"Y-You hit me," I said, looking into Dad's rage filled eyes. I couldn't figure out why he was so mad at me.

"So the fuck what I hit you?! Don't you know how to take a hit by now!?"

"You never hit me when Ma was-" I was punched in the face and thrown to the floor.

"I told you not to mention that bitch!" Dad yelled, stomping on my back. I couldn't breathe for a moment.

"Ma's not a-" Dad stomped on my back even harder and I screamed. As he brought his foot up to stomp on my back again, I managed to crawl away. I sat in a corner of the room with knees pulled up to my chest as Dad came toward me, his hands in tight fists.

"I warned you what would happen if you ever said anything about your mom again!" he yelled.

"Dad . . . I . . . I'm sorry!" I told him! "I'm _really _sorry! I'll stop doing things you told me not to! Please, don't hit me again!" He wasn't listening. "Dad, _please_!" I still remember that beating clearly. The way his fists pounded into my stomach and head until I lost consciousness was like a nightmare that wouldn't let my eyes open.

I woke up in a hospital bed, scared and confused.

"He's finally awake," an American doctor said. I scanned the room, noticing that there was an IV in my arm and Dad was sitting in a chair next to the bed with his head in his hands.

"What happened?" I asked, my eyes still on Dad.

"According to your father, you tripped and fell down the stairs then hit your extremely hard on the floor," the doctor told me, writing on a clipboard. He then looked at Dad. "I'll return momentarily." He left the room and Dad lifted his head. He was crying. It was the first time I'd ever seen him cry.

"Tim . . . son . . ." he broke off. "I'm so sorry. I . . . never meant for this to . . ." His tears were stronger than ever. "It was the drugs. It was all the drugs. You know I'd never . . ." His head fell back into his hands and he began sobbing.

"Why don't you just stop using drugs?" I asked. Dad lifted his head again.

"I can't just quit," he told me. "I need . . . a way to cope."

"Cope?"

"David . . ." That's all he could say and that's all he needed to say. David was my older brother. Dad was teaching him how to shoot his rifle one day and he had it aimed at h im, showing him what to do. He thought the safety was on, but he'd forgotten to put it on. All he did was put his finger on the trigger and the rifle went. He'd accidentally kill his son and my big brother.

"Dad, David died three years ago," I pointed out.

"I know that," Dad replied. "But do you think that bitch you called a mother let me live it down?" He angrily wiped his tears away. "Every fucking day it was, 'If it weren't for you, Timmy's brother would still be alive.' No matter what we were arguing about, she always found a way to bring David up and make me feel shitty. I needed to find a calm way to deal with things without choking the hell out of her. Then I met this guy and he gave me something that made me . . . happy."

"You've been using drugs for three years?" I was completely shocked. I couldn't believe Dad was actually taking drugs.

"Don't judge me, Tim," Dad said. "It's the only thing that keeps me sane."

"Is your drug problem the reason that Ma-" I started.

"Just go to sleep, Tim," Dad interrupted. I could tell he wasn't in the mood to hear my questions, so I didn't argue.

And I didn't sleep either.

**Third one: Done.**

**Review please.**


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